


The Red Maple

by ryan_ross44



Category: I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), Panic! at the Disco, The Brobecks
Genre: Fluff, Gay Character, M/M, Nature, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Painting, Photography, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 09:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17979191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryan_ross44/pseuds/ryan_ross44
Summary: Dallon just wanted to paint and Brendon was just giving him a cup of water.





	The Red Maple

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to create arsty fluff (maybe smut who knows) where brallon likes to paint nature and stuff

The moment he laid eyes on that man he knew that something was different about the person sitting underneath the shade of the red leaves from a grand maple tree.

They made a steady eye contact and the man quickly looked away, continuing to scribble on a piece of drawing paper. There were watercolours of all sorts with a cup of water, a paper towel, small sponge and a large array of brushes sitting on the table to his right. Brendon watched as the man eyed a spider crawling up the leg of the table and onto his paper. He quickly dumped out his cup of water onto the grass below him and captured the spider in the cup. He tipped both the paper and cup upright before removing the paper and replacing it with his hand. Brendon got a wash of confusion as the man shook the cup vigorously before dumping the now dead spider onto the paper and began a sketch. The man looked at Brendon again. 

This time the man kept his eyes on Brendon until Brendon got uncomfortable and went into the visitor's center to buy a bottle of water. He thanked the vendor and walked up the stairs and into a room, sitting on a stool in the corner. The windows were covered with blinds that were cranked open and let stripes of sunlight spew into the room. Brendon liked it. Looking out the window, he could see the man sketching away at the paper.

 

He uncapped the water and took a drink; it tasted vile. 

Brendon sighed, adjusting his hat and pulling the hood of his jacket forward, he left the building and sat down across from the man. He grabbed his cup and poured some water into it. The man kept his eyes on the paper. Brendon looked up at the flaming red maple tree that swayed lightly above them and sighed. It was a beautiful day; the sun was out, it was in the low 70’s and there was a slight chill to the air, signifying that fall was just around the corner.

"I'm Brendon," he said and stuck his hand out. The man looked up confusedly and grabbed Brendon's hand, moving them up and down twice before letting go. Despite the friendly demeanor that Brendon had, the man could tell how uncomfortable he was. Brendon examined the picture of the spider, quickly remembering that there was a dead counterpart on the paper. 

"That's really good," Brendon said and the man nodded.

"Thanks," the man said, content enough with his drawing that he signed it off and put a box around it. He brushed the dead spider off his paper and looked at Brendon’s eyes. Brendon's comfort level dropped down to the ground. They sat in silence. Breaking eye contact, the man stood up and began walking around and behind Brendon, surprising the latter with his height and long legs. He couldn't really see his legs under the table that was in a shady patch under the tree so when the man stood up, Brendon almost gawked.

 

After a second and the sound of a rip the man came back with a purple-blue flower in his hand. Placing it down, he grabbed an angled brush, dipped it in the water then the colour a couple times before beginning the pedals. The man seemed to be pretty new with water colour painting but when he got about three pedals done, began to get better, making sure to have the lightest spots in the middle and leaving the tip of his brush down last so the darkest part of the pedal was the tip. Brendon quickly grew to enjoy watching the man paint.

"I'm Dallon," the man finally spoke after five minutes. He had finished several pedals, all done with care and effort. Brendon looked up at Dallon.

 

"I thought it was only fair to tell you my name since you told me yours. Dallon," he repeated and stopped to look over the painting. 'Blue' Dallon lipped and rubbed the brush on the blue watercolor block then adding just a little purple. He began shading the underside of the flower with the color. Brendon found Dallon's amount of concentration interesting, the way this brow furrowed everytime it came to finishing off the pedal, the way he almost physically slumped when he painted wrong and the way his eyes lit up when he found a way to fix the mistake. 

The stem of the flower took almost as long as the pedals because Dallon seemed to struggle getting a colour that matched. It was either too blue, too yellow, even too orange and he had to restart mixing several times. Dallon began shifting in frustration when he settled for a more yellow-green stem, even though it didn’t quite match the real one. After ten minutes of precise painting, he had two-thirds of the stem done. Another five and he signed his name near the flower. 

“That’s really pretty,” Brendon said, genuinely impressed with Dallon’s skills. Dallon nodded.

 

“I got interested in watercolor and wanted to try it out. You can have them,” he said referring to the art he produced in the last hour. He tore them out of his sketchbook and placed the paper in front of Brendon who looked at it hesitantly. Brendon didn’t know whether if keeping the pictures was wrong or not since they were done really well and Dallon seemed happy with them.

 

“I-I don’t know. You seem happy with them so you should keep them,” but he didn’t move the paper from where it was sitting, still gazing in awe at the work. Dallon shook his head and began packing up his things into his backpack that was placed to his right. 

 

“Since I’m going to go back to my studio want to see other stuff I’ve done?” Dallon asked, almost hesitant. Brendon sat and considered the options given to him by the stranger he just met. All he knows about this person is that he kills things to make art out of them and that he is really tall and soft-spoken. He could end up dead in an alleyway. He could end up kidnapped and shoved into a basement to never see daylight ever again. But even with those thoughts Brendon nodded.

 

“Yeah, sure. Where is it?” Dallon slipped his watercolor palette into his backpack and began slipping the brushes back into their case. 

 

“Just downtown,” Dallon said and zipped up his backpack, standing and waiting for Brendon to get up as well. Brendon liked the walk to Dallon’s car. The leaves clinked against each other in the slight breeze of which cooled down his flaming ears from his spontaneous friend-making moment he just had that was admittedly weird. Or the moment which led to his kidnapping and murder but that was soon to be determined.

 

The car that Dallon approached was black and had obviously seen better days.

 

“It works,” Dallon whispered and unlocked the doors, getting in and starting the car. Brendon walked to the other side and got in as well. The inside of the car was a lot nicer than the outside. 

 

The drive to Dallon’s studio was very quiet but for some reason, comfortable. Dallon had put in a CD of classics and Brendon was enjoying it, saying, “Killer Queen is one of my favourites,” and proceeding to lipsing to the song. Dallon seemed to be stiff and apprehensive until Livin’ On a Prayer came on and his shoulders relaxed and his head nodded to the beat. 

 

Ten minutes later, Dallon pulled into a parking lot for a business building. Dallon got out of the car and motioned for Brendon to as well when he seemed to not know if staying in the car was the correct thing to do.

 

“You’re coming in with me. I can’t bring half of what I made out because I used UV sensitive paints on most of them,” Dallon explained to ease Brendon’s nerves. He decided to add an, albeit, unhelpful, “I’m not going to kill you,” but it didn’t bother Brendon too much. Instead, he quipped back with, “Are you sure?” to which Dallon shook his head playfully.

 

“Honestly, no,” and Brendon snorted. Brendon didn’t truly notice how long Dallon’s legs were until keeping up with him was occasionally hard. Dallon looked back and shook his head at him while Brendon laughed and punched him lightly in the arm. 

 

Brendon learned that Dallon had money -- not an insane amount but enough to be impressed. The building that Dallon rented a studio from Brendon had walked by dozens of times in the past six months, always seeing people in suits with briefcases and fancy tie clips walking in and out. For Brendon’s freelance photography business, he was planning to rent a studio from this building but seeing the prices ranging from $1,000 to $3,000 a month just to rent the place with running water (Heating and electricity was an extra $300 or more a month) Brendon just thought to settle with his current apartment which he rented for a lot less.

 

They quickly arrived at Dallon’s studio, said man unlocking a door with the room number ‘307’ made of metal plates drilled onto the door. Brendon looked around the room in awe, following Dallon into the main space. The walls were covered in paintings of all kinds; portraits, nature scenes, cityscapes, and more than Brendon could honestly think that Dallon would possibly do.

 

“How long have you been painting for?” Brendon asked, stopping at a painting of a woman with blonde hair pulled up into a bun -- the paper was put into the cover slip of a portfolio book. She had hazel eyes and a bright smile as she held a daisy in her hands. There was a man standing next to her with his arm over her shoulder, placing a kiss on top of her head. 

 

“Four years but I’ve been into drawing for longer. Adding color just made it different,” Dallon responded, picking up the book that Brendon was looking at and flipping it. The book was full of paintings, finished and rough drawings of the woman on the cover of the portfolio.

 

“There’s twenty-six of them,” Dallon commented, flipping through the never ending book. He looked through the book, eyes intense and he seemed to almost forget that Brendon was there standing next to him. The final page of the book had “Leann -2019” written in beautiful calligraphy. Seeing the page, Dallon closed the book and placed it down carefully.

 

“I’ve painted animals too. You seem to like that stuff,” Brendon nodded. He’s never really thought about what he likes before but the idea excited him. Dallon lead him into a room with beige walls and a white bed. To the left of the bed there was a door leading to a medium sized storage room. The room was filled with boxes of paintings and drawings; most unable to close and some falling apart. Dallon picked up a box sitting on the ground right next to the door. 

 

Brendon was eager to look through the box. Flipping the box open, he was met with pictures of foxes and owls on a white background. There were clips holding together several copies of the pictures of which had names written on the bottom.

 

“What are the names?” Brendon asked, pulling out booklets of landscapes and deer. 

 

“I sell art in my past time. The names are of the people I’ve made the art for. Each one is hand painted and not photocopied even though the subject is the same. They also give me pictures to paint,” Brendon swore that that was the most Dallon has said at once since he poured the toxic tasting water into his water cup. Brendon nodded and pulled out a painting of a woman standing next to a redwood tree. She had a hawk sitting on her outstretched arm.

 

“That’s my sister. I painted that one and people liked it and she said I could commission it so I did,” Brendon loved the picture. Throughout the process of sifting through the art he discreetly pulled a couple to the side; a painting of the extinct dire wolf and one of the red maple tree they met under. Brendon would ask questions about the paintings and Dallon would answer in short phrases.

 

“What do you do?” Dallon asked, sitting next to Brendon on the bed. Brendon looked at Dallon.

 

“I take pictures and sell them. Similar to what you do but I have to photocopy them and put a stupid watermark in the middle of the picture cause I don’t want them stolen. Nobody can get them HD either until they pay for them. But I freelance so I technically don’t work for anyone. What do you do?”

 

“I’m a software developer but I’m quitting soon so I don’t count it as my job anymore,” Dallon said, picking up the booklets Brendon set aside and took out one from each. He handed them to Brendon and replaced the clips. 

 

The silence they sat in while Dallon repacked the box was comfortable and almost cozy. The sun had gotten a little lower and a warm orange light seeped through the blinds onto the bed, warming Brendon’s legs. Dallon took in a breath before speaking.

 

“Want to work together?” Dallon asked and seemed to kick himself for saying it so quickly. Brendon’s head shot up.

 

“What?”

 

“Well, I’m quitting next week and you have no employer and I’m running out of things to paint, believe it or not, so I was thinking you could let me paint your pictures and sell them and we could split profit or something. It’s up to you though, because they’re your pictures,” Brendon smiled at how rushed Dallon was speaking. He looked down and picked up the paintings that he really liked. Upon comparing the paintings to their seemingly identical copy, Brendon did notice some differences that you would really have to look for to see. Dallon was good at what he did.

 

The red maple tree was painted with acrylics, obvious because of the lumps of dried paint that made the leaves but it still looked amazing. It looked like it took a long time to paint because of the variation of reds and browns and greens used in the painting in specific spots. There was no bench under the tree.

 

“Yeah, okay. I like that. Only payment I require is a enough profit for a new camera and a new flash drive because my current one is full. Other than that, you keep the money,” Brendon didn’t notice how intensely Dallon was looking at him. Dallons eyes lit up when he finished speaking and a small smile laced onto his face; the first he’s smiled.

 

“Okay, um. Do you want my number so we can contact each other? I don’t spend a lot of time in my apartment cause I can carry my camera and my computer and my flash drive in my backpack so I just travel,” Dallon nodded and reached in his pocket for his phone.

 

“Yeah, here,” he handed it to Brendon and let him put his number in. Brendon stood up and straightened his jacket. Dallon stood too.

 

“I have to go but we’ll talk about this sometime tomorrow when you can,” Brendon stuck his hand out. Dallon grabbed his hand and shook it twice before letting it go. 

 

“That works, see you later,” Dallon looked at the contact that Brendon put in and chuckled, whispering a quiet, “Tree boy,” before pocketing his phone and putting the box back into the closet. Brendon scampered out of the apartment with a smile on his face, holding the paintings Dallon gave him instead of the typical briefcases people leaving this building always held.


End file.
